


Harmoniously

by enfantdivine



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Father/Son Incest, Incest, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:42:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2724260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enfantdivine/pseuds/enfantdivine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I am yours to do with as you will,” Legolas said, and the playful smirk that appeared on his lips did not match the reverence in his voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harmoniously

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I completed in quite a long time, and actually the first one I publish here. Oh, and my first language is not English, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. Thranduil/Legolas is my favourite pairing right now, and since there aren't a lot of fics about them, I decided to write one myself. I hope it won't be the only one! Sorry about the title. I hate finding titles, but I love adverbs, and this is the result.
> 
> Translations:  
> Ada = dad  
> Ion nín = my son  
> Eryn Galen = the Elvish name for Mirkwood before the Shadow of Dol Guldur spread from its southern regions; it literally translates as 'green wood'  
> Mell nín = my dear  
> Meleth nín = my love  
> Mae tollen na mar = welcome home  
> Adar nín = my father  
> Meleth e-guilen = love of my life  
> Guren glassui = my heart is joyous

 

The Elvenking sighed contentedly, stretching his elegant limbs as he climbed out of the sunken bathtub. The lavender-scented hot water had managed to take away his fatigue to such extent that the tedious journey back home seemed nothing more than an unpleasant dream now. He felt refreshed and full of energy, with no desire to sleep even though the stars were long shining in the sky, but lacking any idea as to what else he could do. His visit to Lothlórien had put him in a good mood that he was determined to not let anything ruin. The days he had spent in Lord Celeborn’s home had been filled with mirth and carefreeness, feelings often provided by his old-time friend’s company, and he wanted to hold on to them for as long as he could.

To his disappointment, the only elf in Mirkwood he felt like spending time with was fast asleep in the king’s bed. Legolas hadn’t been in the Great Hall to welcome his father, neither had he taken part in the Council’s informative meeting that had followed Thranduil’s return. Concerned that no one knew his whereabouts, the king had ordered that his son be looked for everywhere, but it had been he who, not much later, had found Legolas in the royal chambers, sleeping booted and fully dressed on an edge of the bed. Relief and then amusement had taken worry’s place in Thranduil’s heart. He hadn’t woken the prince up, unwilling to disturb his peaceful rest, and had proceeded to remove his own travel clothing and fix himself a bath, refusing the help of his servants in order to avoid the unnecessary fuss.

Now, after washing away the traces of the journey from his body, Thranduil sat on the lounge chair in front of his fireplace, clad in a crimson velvet robe, a glass of wine in his hand. He pensively combed his fingers through his hair to help dry it faster, not taking his eyes of Legolas’ sleeping form. He smiled to himself when he realized there actually was no other place he wanted to be. The room was filled with warmth and glowing firelight, and no music had ever been more pleasing to the king’s ears than the soft, rhythmic breaths of the one he loved most in the world. Nothing would satisfy him more than staying right there with his son, whom he had had to leave alone for too long for his liking. That was what he was going to do, without another thought of kingly duties and the dangers lurking in the shadow that slowly crept into their realm.  

When his glass was empty, Thranduil discarded the damp robe on the chair as he stood up. With the quietest moves, he headed towards the bed and lay next to Legolas on the luxurious bedspread, resting his head on one of the pillows. He knew he wasn’t going to fall asleep soon, but until he did, there was nothing else he wanted to look at but the prince’s treasured features, so beautiful and still. He studied each of them adoringly, his smile unfading, like he had done thousands of times before. It was his mother Legolas resembled most, no doubt, but his distinctive, pale golden hair was a legacy from Thranduil. Almost by instinct, he reached out to touch his son’s silky mane, tamed by plaits. Unable to help himself, he started to unbraid it with a careful hand, ever so lightly running his fingers through the blonde strands to separate them. When the thickest plait was undone, Thranduil gathered a handful of the newly released hair and let it fall over Legolas’ shoulders slowly, reluctant to part with its inviting sleekness. 

Legolas must have been exhausted, the king thought, since he hadn’t even moved at his father’s maneuvers. It was all the more reason to let him rest, so Thranduil withdrew his hand, intending to do just that. Somehow, though, he managed to brush his thumb against the tip of the prince’s nose, and Legolas blinked confusedly, waking up. 

“Ada?” he uttered, his voice faint with sleep. “You’re home!”

Thranduil let his hand rest on his son’s head for a moment before caressing him soothingly over his neck and upper back to subdue the sudden tension in the young elf’s muscles. “Yes,” he said gently, “go back to sleep, ion nín. I did not mean to wake you.”

Legolas relaxed a little beneath his touch, but then he moved and rolled onto his side, and it became clear that he had no intention to sleep anymore. “Oh, Valar,” he said, looking through the ceiling window, “the night has fallen.” His eyes shifted towards his father as he sighed in self-disappointment. “I’m sorry, ada. I should have been out there to wait for you, to welcome you. I–”

“It’s quite alright, my beloved,” Thranduil spoke with benevolence. “There was no reason to. Tauriel told me you hardly ever slept while I was away. I am glad you managed to find some rest.”

Legolas gave him a weak, embarrassed smile. “As a matter of fact, I too am glad about that,” he admitted. “It is just that the timing for it was bad.” He rolled back on his stomach, closer now to his father than before. “I make an awful king,” he said in apology, but Thranduil could tell the matter worried him no more, if ever it indeed had.

“On the contrary,” the Elvenking smiled too, encouraging his lighthearted attitude. “I was informed of the spiders incident. Everyone agreed that, had it not been for you, those foul beasts would have invaded our dwelling.”

“Oh. Yes,” the prince remembered, and the slight crease that appeared between his eyebrows made him look stern and worried, older all of a sudden. Thranduil had to resist the urge of kissing it away, like he used to centuries ago, when Legolas was just an elfling. “I was completely taken aback that day. Where so many of them came from, I do not know. It was a siege, ada. They wanted to claim territory. I fear we shall have to migrate north if things get worse.”

Thranduil said nothing. He merely forced a reassuring smile and nodded, his gentle hand still stroking Legolas’ hair. His son was right, of course. It wasn’t safe for their people to stay in those parts of Mirkwood for much longer. The menacing shadow grew larger over the forest every day, and they would have to head towards the mountains eventually, despite the help they had been promised, in order to avoid its dangers. But that was something to worry about some other time. Thranduil had made himself a promise not to dwell on such things tonight, and he was not going to break it.

“However,” Legolas said in resignation, “being a good fighter does not make me a good king.”

“Indeed, it does not,” Thranduil agreed, thumbing the pointy tip of the prince’s ear. “But you did more than just fight that day, ion nín. You made good decisions. That, a good king does.” Legolas’ grateful smile warmed his father’s heart, and as Thranduil cupped his face, the young elf turned his head a little to let his lips press lightly against the tender thumb. There were no words that could express the pride Thranduil felt. He hoped his son was able to fully grasp its magnitude.

“What about you, ada? How was your visit to Lothlórien?” Legolas asked, moments later. “Has Lord Celeborn accepted your offer?”

“He did,” the king answered. “I had quite some convincing to do though. He wouldn’t take anything in return for his help. I tried to find a suitable way to tell him my offering him southern Mirkwood was not meant as a reward, but as a token of our gratitude. And despite my best efforts, it was his wife who made him give in in the end, as expected of a Noldo. She, of course, was persuasive in a way I couldn’t possibly be.”

“That is good! You were counting on Galadriel supporting your proposal, whatever her motives,” the prince lilted, dismissing the slightly sharp tone Thranduil’s voice had held when mentioning Celeborn’s wife. He did not approve of the grudge his father, as a Sinda, still held against the Noldor, the king knew that. It was one of the few matters they didn’t see eye to eye on. Legolas’ peaceful intentions were an admirable reason for his disapproval, but he’d been born too late to be affected by the Noldor-Sindar conflict. Thranduil had lived right in the middle of it. Even though not many shared his unyielding resentment nowadays, he was not ready to leave it behind. The longer he lived, the more difficult it became to adapt to the world’s changes – and Thranduil was ancient – but that was the price of immortality. Legolas would learn that in due time. “And what did Lord Celeborn say he can help us with?” the young elf asked further.

“He is willing to send as many Galadhrim as we need to join us in our endeavor to keep the shadow at bay,” the king replied patiently, despite his disinclination to say more on that subject. “We shall welcome them as soon as spring comes.”

Legolas squinted and nodded slowly with a thoughtful expression, his lips sliding along Thranduil’s thumb. “What worries me,” he said, frowning again, “is the great number of our people planning to flee Mirkwood. Many of us are gone already. I hope we are not going to be outnumbered by the Galadhrim by the time they are here! We aim to replenish our ranks, not to raise a new army. By the Valar, ada, what Celeborn shall get in return for his generosity is going to be a hard-earned token of gratitude indeed.”

“Legolas,” the Elvenking said in a kind yet firm voice that left no doubt about his intention of suspending that talk, “if there is one thing I can promise you, it is that we shall overcome this threat upon us. We have many things to fear, but even more to give us hope. And we are not alone. These dark times are bound to come to an end someday, and when that day comes, Mirkwood shall be renowned as _Eryn Galen_ once more. Do you trust me, mell nín?” He looked at the prince with infinite love, believing every word he had just spoken. Legolas was not old enough to be this anxious. Thranduil, not him, was the ruler of their realm, and he, like the rest of their people, had to be aware that he was under the Elvenking’s guidance and protection. His father was not going to fail them. He never did.

“Yes,” Legolas said, and as Thranduil pushed his hair behind his ear, threading his fingers through the fair locks, he witnessed the change in his son’s aspect, relief and faith replacing worry on his handsome features. “Yes, of course I trust you.” With those words, he sat up, and taking the king’s hand, he pressed his lips tightly to the back of his knuckles in a fond kiss. “Forgive me, ada. You are probably exhausted from such a long journey, and all I do is pester you with unpleasant matters. I shall let you get some rest.” He then got up from the bed, straightening his clothes.

“I am not as tired as you imagine,” Thranduil let him know, propping up on one elbow. “You may stay if you wish.”

The prince glanced back at him over his shoulder. “Do you want me to?” he asked with hope in his voice.

“So long as you remove your boots,” his father smirked. Beaming, Legolas started to undress.

*

 “I missed you,” the young elf said as he lay in bed as naked as his parent, facing him, the firelight reflecting from his eyes. They appeared blue-green now, the colour that the sea supposedly had. Thranduil had no interest in the sea – there were still many things to be accomplished on land – but he would never, ever tire of looking in Legolas’ eyes. “And I worried. I lost sleep thinking about the dangers you could face on the way to Lothlórien and back. Thank Eru you are home unharmed.”

“You shouldn’t have worried about me, precious child,” Thranduil replied with a shake of his head. “My enemies know better than to take me prisoner. They would have to find the occasion to kill me at once if they want to keep their lives, and as you must know, I can be quite hard to kill.”

“I would have been more at ease had you taken more than seven guards with you. And besides,” Legolas confessed, biting into his lower lip briefly, “you have never been away for so many days. I longed for you. That is why you found me sleeping. I came here to prepare your bedroom for when you returned, and I don’t know why, but I laid my head on your pillows. They smelled like you. I could not get enough of your scent.”

Thranduil let out a warm chuckle, not breaking eye contact with his son. “I am here now, my beloved,” he assured him, grateful for the love Legolas had for him and couldn’t hide if he wanted to. “And I’m not leaving again, not for so long. Twenty days without you passed like ages.” In spite of not having seen Celeborn for centuries, and with all his enjoyable company, there hadn’t been a single moment Thranduil hadn’t wished to have Legolas with him.

The prince held out his hand and traced the outline of his father’s arm with his fingertips, down to the wrist and then upwards again. His palm molded around the curve of Thranduil’s shoulder when it reached it, casually grasping it before he let the back of his fingers descend over his collarbone in a caressing touch, and lower still, past the smooth skin of his firm, chiseled torso towards the graceful hip. They stopped there, ever so gently hooking over the protruding bone. Legolas’ hands were as nimble when it came to touching a body as they were with a longbow, and he had managed to avoid – purposely, the king was sure – all of his father’s most sensitive spots which he knew by heart. Because of that rather than despite it, the familiar heat of lust started to swell in Thranduil’s loins and spread within him, growing hotter and more impetuous with each passing moment. The knowing glint in his son’s eyes made him smile. _To learn that I can make you desire me so makes me most pleased_ , Legolas had told him once, and it was obvious that hadn’t changed.  

“Was there no one in Lothlórien worthy to help you pass the time?” the young elf asked, a mischievous half-grin lighting his face. For a moment, Thranduil couldn’t decide whether to take those words as the teasing they had been meant as or not.

“It did not occur to me to try to find out,” he told the truth eventually, and Legolas’ grin faded. Pressing his fingers into his father’s hip, he leaned forward and lightly touched his lips with his own. Behind the doors of their chambers, whenever they would get close like that, Thranduil was seldom the one who gave the first kiss, avoiding it deliberately and with great difficulty sometimes, and for no other reason than the pleasure of reenacting the one that had turned them into lovers. It had happened centuries ago, but the king was never going to forget it. There had been nothing special about that day at all, nothing to let them know what would follow. They had simply looked at each other differently all of a sudden, in a way that _must_ have been special, because seconds later Legolas had made their lips lock much like now, and Thranduil had welcomed it as if he’d been forever waiting for it to happen.

The prince broke the chaste kiss and gazed into the king’s eyes, the corners of his mouth turned slightly upwards. There was something sublime in the way the flickering firelight made his ivory skin glow golden. The shadows it cast on his youthful face sculpted it artfully, highlighting his cheekbones, his alluring lips, the line of his jaw. It was the adoring look in his eyes though which prompted Thranduil to think that he had yet to see a creature more magnificent.

“Light of my days,” he whispered, and his hand cupped the back of Legolas’ head to bring it closer and claim his mouth in another kiss, more ardent and possessive. The young elf whimpered at the pleasant assault. The echo of it resounded in Thranduil’s mind, and his tongue pushed past his son’s willingly parting lips, delving into his sweet, moist warmth with wanton urgency, tasting, exploring, dueling with Legolas’ own. The prince closed the space that kept them apart, his steady arm around his father’s waist, and his fingertips, roughened by the wood and string of his bow, glided up and down his spine in a slow, purposeful motion that send shivers throughout Thranduil’s body.

It was the king’s turn to let a sound escape his throat when Legolas’ hand slid between them to grasp Thranduil ’s thick sex. He expelled a long, quivering breath through his nostrils as the young elf stroked it gently, and he squeezed the supple nape beneath his palm while plunging his tongue even deeper into his son’s mouth. He was delightfully aware of his own growing erection under Legolas’ expert touch, but the most satisfying thing to him was the knowledge that the prince enjoyed that stage of their lovemaking just as much as he did. He felt him smile into the kiss.

“You are too good to your old father, meleth nín,” he breathed, and ended it unhurriedly as Legolas thumbed the swollen tip of his erection with finesse, coaxing drops of pearly fluid out. “Allow me to repay you.” Grabbing a handful of luscious hair, he delicately pulled his son’s head back and started to kiss along his neck, from the tip of his chin down to the hollow at the base of his throat, then all over and across it, the pressure of his lips different every time. Legolas purred happily, his fist tightening its grip on Thranduil’s shaft and welcoming each of its slow thrusts.

“Oh, ada,” he let out a broken mewl when his father’s teeth grazed his earlobe. His ears were so sensitive he could even reach climax if they were properly stimulated, and Thranduil knew exactly what his son liked. His tongue sneaked in the pointy shell, carefully sweeping its every crevice and contour, and his warm breath came out in heavy exhales that punctuated his efforts. His fingers flexed in the prince’s hair, pulling at it in a manner he knew was most pleasing, thus exposing Legolas’ ear to his mouth better and making him moan softly and emit a muttered praise. The young elf removed his hand from around the king’s sex, and he drove his pelvis forward, bringing their erections together. They spent a while like that, grinding into each other, their limbs entangled, seeking release and letting it elude them whenever in their passion they caught a glimpse of it. Neither wanted to finish what they had started, not so soon, not like that, but they felt good in the intimacy of their embrace, and so they lingered in it.

“I cannot last much longer, ada,” Legolas murmured as Thranduil’s playful tongue swirled behind his ear, making him shudder almost violently. “Let us stop, let _me_ pleasure you, in any way you wish me to. Please,” he insisted when the king looked at him in mild amusement. Thranduil did stop though, intending to assure his son he was already pleasuring him in the most wonderful of ways, but the lust-glazed eyes, flushed cheeks and tempting mouth before him made him change his mind.  

“Very well, sweet one,” he conceded with growing eagerness. He pressed Legolas’ shoulder in a silent request for him to lie on his back, and the prince obeyed, laying his head on the cushions, the bright halo of his hair splayed around it. Thranduil moved from his side and straddled his slender leg with agility. Legolas panted in anticipation, and his father leaned down to press his lips affectionately to his warm forehead. The young elf lifted his head just a little, to nuzzle his neck and breathe his scent in as deeply as he could before Thranduil leveled his eyes with his and brought his right hand to his face, unable to resist touching it.

“You can pleasure me by leaving your body in my care,” he said in a velvety voice, soft and commanding at once, a voice he saved for his beloved son only. The pads of his fingers ran gingerly over his cheeks, his chin, trailed the outline of his jaw, danced upon his parted lips. “Would you?” he asked, although he had his permission already.  

Legolas nodded with no hesitation, and his hands traveled along his father’s chest in a swift but tender motion, brushing past his toned muscles and hardening nipples, and weaving up into his hair to pull him down for a kiss. Thranduil ran his tongue over his son’s upper lip before letting it slide once more into his hot, demanding mouth. He held his head in place while tasting him leisurely, with thorough domination. “My dearest one,” he praised him, their breaths mingling, and stole another kiss. “My treasure.” To see him like that, so trustful and impatient and lost in sweet abandon, that look of love and reckless want embellishing his face, was all the Elvenking really needed. Legolas was precious to him beyond compare.

The prince gasped when his father nipped at the side of his neck briefly before closing his teeth on the fragile flesh there, suckling it until a mark was left. “Ada, please–” Legolas uttered and tilted his head back in delight, his spine arching and his hips grinding against the king’s leg.

Thranduil sneaked his left arm around his waist for better control, taking advantage of the space created between the young elf’s body and the mattress. “Yes, meleth nín. Tell me what it is you want,” he encouraged him, but Legolas seemed to have lost his power of speech, able to emit but quiet little moans and ragged gasps. Thranduil pressed his knee gently between his legs, not wasting any time. “Is it this?” he asked with a smirk, happy when his son responded by spreading his thighs as wide apart as he could. His right hand feathered over the prince’s chest, and his lips followed its trail, kissing away the burn of light bites and drying wet traces of saliva. Soon, his mouth found Legolas’ nipple, and after teasing it with a lick and a puff of hot breath, his teeth fastened around it and tugged carefully. “Or this?” he went on, sucking and twirling his tongue all over it to make sure he dulled any pain he might have caused. But Legolas didn’t care. In his ecstatic state, he would take anything Thranduil offered him, so the king was determined to offer nothing but the very best.

Legolas’ other nipple received the same deliciously tormenting treatment, which made him squirm and pull at his father’s hair in delight. His head lifted from the cushions and their eyes locked, staying like that and mirroring each other’s lustful gaze while Thranduil placed kiss after kiss down the taut muscles of the young elf’s stomach. Legolas gave a feeble, content smile and gradually released the lustrous tresses he was still holding, spreading them over the Elvenking’s powerful shoulders and on his own body, where they joined Thranduil’s fingers in their caressing touch. 

When the king’s chin brushed passingly over the heated tip of his son’s erection, a blissful sigh left Legolas’ lips, and as he blinked, his eyes stayed closed for a moment before he opened them again. “I should be the one doing this to you, ada,” he said, with no regret though. “You deserve it more than I do.” 

“Do I now?” Thranduil asked mirthfully, his breath ghosting over Legolas’ shaft as he spoke. “Then we shall switch places, lovely one, since you seem so willing to. But not tonight,” he added, amused by the slightly tensed look that had appeared on the prince’s face and its sudden relief. He licked a path along Legolas’ whole length, and his soft lips enveloped its sensitized tip when they reached it, applying the least amount of pressure around it that they could. It was enough to make his son shudder and moan in pleasure, and his head to fall back again as his entire body relaxed into his parent’s firm hold. The king took him deeper in his mouth, his practiced tongue sneaking beneath the foreskin temporarily, lapping at its inner folds. Legolas tasted like he smelled – of wood and leaves and summer berries growing in the forest’s depths, dry, fresh and sweet at once. Thranduil took his time to savour him, his ears relishing the sultry groans he elicited from the prince, wonderful sounds that grew in intensity with every swirl of his father’s tongue, with every pull of his lips.

“Oh, ada! Oh, Valar!” Legolas gasped when Thranduil’s throat opened and wrapped around his shaft, encasing it inch by inch. His fingers dug into the bedding and a string of elven curses spilled through his teeth, all of his muscles tensed anew. Thranduil watched the frantic heaving of his chest, mesmerized, holding him tighter, swallowing him further, and finally he allowed himself to become fully aware of the effect Legolas’ reactions had on his own body. It wasn’t necessarily what he did that put Legolas in such a state of elation, but the fact that it was _him_ , his own father, who did it. That was what pleased the king most. No one else could provoke that response from the prince, no matter how fair or how skillful. Legolas had never let him forget that, and every time Thranduil thought of it, even after years and years since he had discovered it, his heart missed a beat. His self-control was starting to wane as he had no desire to maintain it anymore. It wouldn’t be long until he’d bring them both to completion, and he craved that moment now with unrestrained hunger.

Legolas trembled in his arms, pleas rich with need escaping his mouth as Thranduil kept moving his head up and down, letting his son’s erection go through the pliant muscles of his throat each time he descended. The king knew his body well enough to anticipate its every reaction, so well in fact that he could almost feel sensorially connected to it, and his momentary intention was to bring him on the brink of orgasm, but not let him fall over the edge. Not yet. “Ada–”, the young elf cried softly when his father’s right hand joined his mouth in its movement, and he muffled his next wailing moans in the inside of his elbow. “Please, don’t stop,” he whimpered, and Thranduil could unmistakably feel in Legolas’ body the familiar twitch preceding the climax, the cue that made him ignore his request. 

“I shall make this even better for you,” he promised before Legolas could express his frustration, and stroked his throbbing shaft with a slow, calming hand a few times until the prince’s breathing steadied somewhat. “For both of us.” 

“I am yours to do with as you will,” Legolas said, and the playful smirk that appeared on his lips did not match the reverence in his voice. Thranduil incidentally palmed his son’s heavy sac, kneading the soft flesh with the lightest squeeze, and he unwrapped his arm from around his waist so he could use his both hands to press the young elf’s thighs down. 

“You are exquisite, ion nín,” he murmured as his eyes caressed the complying body in front of him, revealing just how much he marveled at Legolas’ perfection. “And you beguile me so.” The prince’s lips parted to let an anticipative whimper pass when his father’s head moved down between his legs again, and his breath caught when Thranduil’s thumbs spread his buttocks gently. He stayed still for as long as he could, focusing on the pleasure he received as the king’s tongue sunk deep within him, twisting and writhing sensually, making his muscles loosen little by little. But when it pulled out and back in abruptly, seemingly even deeper than before, his hips bucked upwards to meet its plunge as far as the hands on his thighs let him. Thranduil’s head shifted so he could drive his tongue in him from a different angle, and Legolas rewarded him with his most delectable moans, encouraging him to thrust faster. So the Elvenking did, continuing his most intimate exploration of the prince’s body, overtaken himself by an intense rush of lustful delight. Each time he went in he pushed more saliva inside the narrow channel, and when his tongue met almost no resistance in its way anymore, he stopped, giving his son’s smooth entrance one final lick.

“Please, ada, take me,” Legolas panted, his eyes bright as they met Thranduil’s again. “I ache for you. I cannot wait a moment longer. Please–”

Shivering with desire, Thranduil moved swiftly between the wide open legs and hovered over the young elf, leaning on one elbow to bend forward with unaffected grace. He uttered an endearment before his mouth crashed against Legolas’ in one of their fiercest kisses yet, that left them both breathless and altogether thoughtless. Legolas put his arms around his father’s neck and his hands tousled his hair in complete disarray. He couldn’t get enough of his kisses, greedily tasting his own flavour on the king’s lips and tongue, and he wantonly grunted and gasped and squirmed beneath Thranduil as he sought as much physical contact with him as he could get.

Without further delay, the Elvenking’s hand made its way to his own needy sex. It was leaking profusely, and with a dexterous move, he coated it generously in the honey-like fluid, unwilling to cause Legolas any unnecessary pain. With his other hand, he grasped a handful of his son’s hair again to hold his head in place, and he made their kissing subside. He did not take his eyes off the prince’s face, reveling in its expression of pure exaltation as he entered him gently, with ease. Legolas’ legs wrapped around his waist, and he took his father’s length in inch by inch, welcoming his body into his own with dulcet whimpers and breaths. His eyelids were heavy with lust; his rosy lips quivered in excitement. The beauty and splendour of all the gems and jewels in the world could not compare to his, and the king sank into him as deeply as he could, with a low, primal groan, followed by a gasp of Legolas’ name. The young elf’s inner muscles stretched around Thranduil’s sheer girth, relaxing and accommodating him shortly due to the great control he had over his own body even in the most distracting moments.  

“Oh, ada, ada,” he sighed in fulfillment, “why can we not stay like this forever? I would need nothing else. It is you that makes me whole, my father, my lord, my everything!”

“Legolas,” the Elvenking said softly, moved by his son’s utter devotion, and his free hand traveled upon one of Legolas’ arms until he could entangle his fingers with his, removing it from around his neck. “Without you, I would have long forgotten how to love and smile with mirth.” He pressed a lingering kiss to Legolas’ wrist, feeling the rapid pulse against his mouth. “My sweet, brave prince,” he whispered, “I adore you beyond all measure.” They stayed like that for a while, lost in their feelings, their eyes locked in a loving gaze.

The first move Thranduil made within the snug confines of his son’s body was no more than a slow, shallow thrust, but it was enough to send them in a state of otherworldly bliss. A new, more intense kind of heat spread within and between them, overwhelming, almost palpable – the heat of them both combined and multiplied as they moved like one, breathed like one, became one. When the king’s thrusts slowly turned longer and more powerful, an endless slew of honeyed words left his lips, and there was not a single one that didn’t express his worship. Despite his arousal, his moves stayed fluid, elegant in their increasing cadence, effortlessly controlled and serving the sole instinctive purpose of pleasing Legolas above all else. Legolas’ now pinned-down hand squeezed his father’s tighter as their lovemaking grew fiercer. His cries got louder and louder, and so much ecstatic happiness filled them that Thranduil captured his mouth eventually into a hungry kiss to taste their enticing echo.

The steady rhythm of the Elvenking’s strokes slowed down when he felt Legolas close to his peak again, until he stopped, sheathed in the prince’s velvety heat completely. “Ada–” the young elf sobbed, his chest heaving with each breath.

Thranduil smoothed his hair fondly. “Shall I keep going, meleth nín?” he asked, letting Legolas be the one to decide if their intimacy should end then or later. The feeling of his son’s tightness enveloping him was almost unbearably pleasant, but the king was able to delay the moment of their climax indefinitely, just as he could bring it forth as early as he liked. It was a skill that came with time. Legolas had it too, but tonight he had relinquished control over his body to his father. Thranduil’s question had been just a means to make sure his prince would not be disappointed in the least.

“Wait–” Legolas said, swallowing hard, his panting subsiding. “Wait.” His fingers ceased their grasp on the king’s hair. He brought them to Thranduil’s face, and their tips skimmed over the statuesque features aimlessly for a while before they decided to stop on his left temple, near his eye. With a gaze filled with wonder, he let them descend across the smooth oval of the Elvenking’s cheek, so slowly as if he searched for something along the path he traced. Thranduil’s breath hitched as a foreseen tremor ran through him head-to-foot, and his sex throbbed vehemently inside Legolas, who let out a quiet sigh. Every time his son touched his face there, he was reminded of the searing pain caused by dragon fire long before their age, of a wound that was never truly going to heal no matter how many layers of new, perfect skin would grow over it and hide its horror. But Legolas’ soothing caress was worth it. To him it was the greatest pleasure, one born not in his body, but in his mind, for it amazed him how easily the prince could banish the memory of that old agony with the slightest touch. Had it not been for his son, he wouldn’t have remembered it was gone. That was the essence of what Legolas represented to him – a most pure, uncorrupted being, the only one able to keep away the filth and the wickedness that were always a danger to the soul of someone as old and powerful as Thranduil. No amount of darkness could extinguish his light. With him, the Elvenking was safe.

“Mae tollen na mar,” Legolas finally said, and cradled the king’s jaw tenderly in his palm. “Adar nín, meleth e-guilen.”

Thranduil thanked him with a humble smile, the kind that no one but his son had the privilege to be given. “Guren glassui, Legolas,” he replied in a voice so low he could barely hear it himself. The prince’s hand shifted to the back of his neck and squeezed mildly. He was ready to resume their lovemaking, and his father fulfilled his wish by rocking his pelvis back and forth, sliding out of Legolas’ body almost entirely, and in again with an elated cry that matched the young elf’s. He did it over and over, establishing a new rhythm for his thrusts, one in which he expertly alternated the long, sensual strokes with brief, potent ones, and with maddening rolls of his hips. Legolas met his moves halfway, mewling every time the hidden, oversensitive nub of flesh deep inside him was nudged, and the unique sensation of satisfied desire grew within them as they swayed together in harmony.

The moment rapture folded them both in its arms, tears of joy sprung from Legolas’ eyes as the rush of emotion and supreme delight swept over him thoroughly. His lips began to form a word, but failed to utter it due to the moans and broken sobs he was unable to contain. Thranduil held his hand firmly as he lost himself to wave after wave of pleasure so profound it rendered his scream soundless, turning it into a long, gratified sigh. He pushed into the prince’s tightness once more before he stilled, focused on the divine feeling of Legolas’ inner muscles gripping and convulsing around his shaft, and at last, he let his rich, warm seed spill deep within his son and fill him up.

When it was all over, the king slipped out of him as gently as he had entered, and they held one another lovingly, still trembling from the intensity of their union. Legolas’ skin glistened with a sheen of sweat in the golden light, and Thranduil, smitten by his beauty, covered his face in delicate kisses, wiping off the dry traces of his tears. He then slid down the prince’s body again to lick it clean of his son’s sweet release he had no intention to let go to waste.

“I am so happy, ada,” Legolas said, needlessly though because his joyful smile spoke volumes about his state. “I shall remember this night dearly, forever.” The king was going to remember it too, like he remembered all the nights he had spent with his son, each of them special in its own way. With one more kiss above Legolas’ navel, he slithered next to him and enveloped them both in the cozy, quilted bedspread. They settled into a comfortable position, each with an arm around the other. Their eyes wouldn’t unlock their gaze, not even in their sleep.

But sleeping was not what they intended to do. They cherished each other’s company too much, and despite their tiredness, they still refused to trade it for some needed rest. So they spent long hours sharing tales about what they had done while the king had been away, careful to leave anything unpleasant aside. Legolas especially enjoyed a conversation about Lothlórien, a realm he had only visited once, long ago, before he had even come of age, and asked his father numerous questions that Thranduil answered with ample, vivid detail greatly enjoyed by the young elf. “Once we dispel the shadow and find safety again, we shall go there together,” the king promised. “In springtime, when new leaves come into being, and the forest’s floor is golden.”

Finally, when the room fell quiet save for their soft breathing and the snap of the fire that warmed them, the cold light of morning had already begun to brighten up the sky. Reveling in the knowledge that, bound by blood and flesh in perfect unity, they were each other’s till the end of all time, they allowed themselves to slip in the comforting world of dreams, with no thought whatsoever of the oncoming day.


End file.
